


Lemon Incest

by Melimelo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 7x07, ? - Freeform, Angst, Canon Era, Could be rated G, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Half-Sibling Incest, I don't know..., Jon Snow the gentleman Westeros needs, Missing Scene, Political Jon, The Author Knows Nothing, and it's season 7, because we're in Jon's head, but I didn't 'cause of language, hints at - Freeform, so he knows nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melimelo/pseuds/Melimelo
Summary: She once told him that Littlefinger brought her three carts of lemons, straight from King's Landing, when she was hiding in the Vale.Or the missing scene of the Dragonpit meeting, without the Dragonpit meeting.





	Lemon Incest

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know I implied I'd work on my WIP on its last chapter. I will.
> 
> But I had this little scénette in mind (it was supposed to be 500-1 000 words long and not angsty at all but I think you're starting to know me...) for about two months and, since I never fell onto some similar fic, I decided to write it.
> 
> Same as always: English isn't my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to let me know !
> 
> The location, characters and background story aren't mine - that'd mean I'd be able to know how it ends before everybody else and, unfortunately, that's not the case.
> 
> Title is from a song by Serge Gainsbourg, sung by himself and his daughter. It's very... like him. (The song has nothing to do with the story, I just chose it because Lemon and Incest)
> 
> Enjoy!

He could say the worst thing was the smell – rancid and bitter. It wouldn’t be a complete lie – ha! sweet irony – especially after spending a few days breathing fresh air from north of the wall. He had known worse smells than that: knows what a man smells like when he’s pissing himself with fear, knows how blood smells and tastes, he cleaned up lavatories, spent weeks without encountering clean water, fought off half-rotten people on a – too much – regular basis. So, no, the worse thing about King’s Landing wasn’t its smell.

It wasn’t the proximity either, no matter what he might have told Tyrion. Sure, the Northerner in him, who’s more used to large spaces and wild nature, winced at the sight of all those people living crammed like that, but he is a versatile man. He lived at Castle Black and with the free folk, Robb, Arya and even Greyjoy as youths didn’t have much qualm about personal space. He wouldn’t recoil at the mere idea of living in closeness with others.

It’s wasn’t even the heat. Winter had started to make itself known even down South, and Jon supposed it wouldn’t be long before the first snowflakes touched the ground of the capital. And, a small voice sounding too much like Davos reminded him that, if he was that hot, he just had to let go of his cloak once and for all. Or – because Jon would have scowled at that – just until they go back north. But he had kept his cloak even down South, as much as he had been able to – probably making everyone around him believe he wasn’t much resistant to the cold, or that winters in the North weren’t what they’d been.

No, King’s Landing did not need any other reason to be disliked than the fact that it was King’s Landing. The place where San-his sister had spent years suffering, on her own, held hostage; where Father was killed, the reason why they left in the first place. Jon was walking right in the lion’s den, where they grew and prospered, and he could feel his hackles rising at the back of his neck the closer he got of the pier, his mouth hitching to twist into a snarl.

He was angry at everything, these days, his anger an outlet for the frustration and desperation he felt growing into his chest each minute he spent away from home, a new unwilling puppet for this clash over the Iron Throne that forced everyone’s attention away from the real fight that was currently walking closer to his home.

He yearned to go back home, and instead was treading on the soil of King’s Landing, following Tyrion and Missandei and Lord Commander Mormont’s son and followed by all the others. The Mother of Dragons would join them later, after Cersei Lannister’s arrival. She would fly over the Red Keep on the back of one of her two last dragon. As they started walking, escorted by a squad of Lannister’s soldiers, no one breathed a word.

He was struck with awe, even after witnessing her flying over the army of the dead on those wonderful assets. Anyone who’d witness them would have the same reaction he had, a thrilling mix of wonder and terror. He couldn’t wait to see Sa-his sister Sansa’s reaction, Arya’s and Bran’s. If he remembered correctly, there were still some dragon’s skulls under the Throne Room – perhaps the girls would have had time to go see them. Arya had admired Visenya, sister of Aegon the Conqueror, Bran had liked learning about the dragons and Sansa had enjoyed stories of Targaryen’s knights, fair princesses and silver-haired kings. Oh! What he’d give to be with them just now! To ruffle Arya’s hair, to clasp Bran’s arm – how they must have grown since the last time he saw them… Perhaps even Arya was taller than him now, although she always had a small stature – to hold Sansa close once again. He missed them all greatly - his siblings.

“This is the Red Keep,” Tyrion declared, pointing a tall building with red walls.

It’s here, then, Jon couldn’t help but think, she’d told him her room had been in the Red Keep for all those moons. _I could see the sea from my balcony and, sometimes, the sound of the waves was the only thing that could put my mind to rest._ As he closed his eyes, stopped moving forward just for a moment, he could picture her behind his eyelids – a younger version, of course, perhaps already less carefree than she had been at Winterfell, the sunset over the horizon, her face tilted to its glow and her hair competing its radiance. She’d lay a bit of her weight on the railing, enjoying the way the gentle breeze would caress her face and make her gown move softly. He liked to think she might have sung a few verses under her breath – she always had a lovely voice, and the times when he fell upon her singing when they’d been children – not for him, never for him – were still recalled fondly, even if he’s now a man grown, familiar with treasons, battles and death.

“Your Grace,” ser Davos called him back into reality, his hand urging him to keep walking. His gaze was piercing and held a wary glint, and Jon could feel his anger return. He knew theoretically the man had the best intentions, but he was always present when Sansa was on his mind, relentless in making sure she didn’t stay there longer than _what is expected_. Jon hadn’t been able to think about her in peace for as many moons as he’d left her and his mind, his heart, his body – his entire being – missed her more than he could say.

It was the same for his siblings.  
He was going mad being away from his pack, like a lion in a cage or a rabid dog – except he was a wolf – growling and snarling at every annoyance that occurred near him. He wasn’t north of the wall anymore, facing the Night King, but this place wasn’t making him at ease either.

Their small group walked under a large arch, and now they passed by large bouts of vegetation instead of pavement and sand. According to Tyrion, they were now officially in the capital of the Crownlands, in the former home of the first dragons that had fled over the country. The Black Dread of Aegon the Conqueror, Quicksilver, dragon of his first son, Arrax or Vhagar, the two participants of the Dance of Dragons, had flown over where they were standing. The fact that Drogon and Rhaegal would soon follow was the implied remark lurking in everyone’s mind. The two last dragons would be the end of the green grass, flowers, ripe fruits and old trees. _Dragons don’t know the difference between what’s theirs and what isn’t._

The only highlight of this meeting was that it was the last one before Jon could sail back North. The Dragon Queen would finally understand he was right all along, would see Cersei’s falseness and the thousands of Dothrakis, Unsullied and two dragons would march to the Great War.

Arya will be safe. Bran will be safe. Sansa will be safe.  
The pack will survive.

==--==

"... only better and better lies."

==--==

He did the best he could.

It could have been worse. Sure, he somewhat officially pledged himself to a queen, had angered Davos and Brienne and probably Sansa – he’d have to send her a word and be careful still for Varys surely let nothing escape him – but he had been especially careful with his choice of words as he spoke to the Lannisters and if it must, he’ll only bring himself with his downfall.

Daenerys Targaryen seemed to have liked this display of loyalty and his little speech about honesty, at the very least. Even if her attraction could be useful – he is certain it’s the main reason she is all “I should have listened to you since the beginning”, doe-eyed and soft looking around him – it annoyed him to no end.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more his annoyance twisted and left way to anger. How could she hope of saving people and changing the way things are if she lets herself be blinded by her attraction to him? Jon himself tried with everything he had to stay entirely focused on the threat of the Night King. This was important. This wasn’t something one could be distracted of.

And he wasn’t. He made sure of it.

Davos was making sure of it, too, when exhaustion would finally submerge him, and he’d let his mind wander and think of her. Of everything that’s not for him, never for him. Sansa would- but no, there’s no time to waste on that. His sister was safe, home, surrounded by their family, guards and Ghost was keeping close watch, too. He was a fool for worrying like that over her.

His Hand, well his former Hand, slowed his steps so that he was walking beside him, the both of them following Daenerys Targaryen, her Hand and her court. Only Greyjoy walked behind Jon and Davos the last time Jon looked over his shoulder. It looked like Davos wanted to speak with him, the only thing preventing him from doing so was Jon’s scowling features. Even the dragon queen had attempted to complain to him that she would’ve wanted at least to see the Iron Throne and had quickly changed her mind at the sight of his face.

He didn’t have any wish of hearing reprimands just now, especially not from an angry Davos so he pretended to examine a flower that had caught his gaze on the ground, knowing that his Hand would rather keep on walking with the others than waste time contemplating vegetation.

It wasn’t very fascinating to Jon either, Greyjoy’s surprised look a confirmation of that. He hadn’t spent much time as a child in the Glass Gardens at Winterfell – and even less as a man grown – contrary to Sansa, to his sister. Roses weren’t her favorite: he remembered she had preferred azaleas as a youth, and perhaps it was still the case. How could he not know this? He raised his eyes from the white and pink roses piled in a wicker basket, searching for other flowers, a crazy idea forming in his mind.

Azaelas grew in the South. Even if she did not like them anymore, she would be pleased having one. He could pick one rose and bring it back North, perhaps she could use the seeds and plant them in the Glass Gardens – he recalled her mentioning their destruction with a regretful tone. However, as he raised his eyes to look around for any witness, his gaze fell on a couple of trees, not so far from where he was standing. Lemon trees. With ripe yellow fruits on their branches.

A flower would wither during the journey but a lemon…

Well, he had no idea how much time a lemon would last, but it was surely longer than a flower. He darted a look to Davos, Greyjoy, the dragon queen who were still walking, getting farther and farther away but still paying him no mind. If he acted now, he could fetch a lemon and go back to them without Davos noticing. He could hide the fruit behind the swathes of his cloak, and then in his trunk.

 

One lemon would only mean one lemon cake, he thought as he strode toward its tree. So little a gift... He wished he could take more. Wished he had time of taking back entire carts of lemons, at least four or five! But winter was here, and it must have been so long since she hadn’t had one – and she’d loved them. Surely, _that_ will please her. That thought brought a small smile on his face, the first one in what felt like a lifetime. He swiftly took one lemon, chiding himself internally for not being able to recognize and pick the tastier one and relying on vague suppositions such as 'the heavier one must be the best', and strode back to the group.

His little escapade thankfully remained unnoticed, because he wasn't sure he would have been able to come up with a convincing excuse, what with his heart beating loudly - from the exertion, of course - and his senses wide awake - since they were in enemy's territory. _Not for you, never for you._ And if anyone wondered why he kept his left hand hidden in his cloak, they never made the remark - Davos was still angry at him, Greyjoy always looked down when caught looking and the rest did not care enough.

And so he was able to steal something for San- for his little sister, and because he enjoyed making her smile - from the very place that stole so much from her. He thought she might like the symbolic, too.

As soon as he stepped on the boat, he let out a sigh: he really had no love for the city, before holding back a wince at Tyrion's announcement that they would sail South once more to Dragonstone before all going up North.

“Are you going back to your quarters?” The dragon queen asked him, forcing him to halt.

He would’ve preferred to nod, but instead he answered with a curt “Aye”, mentally noticing that he should probably be more affectionate toward her, especially with Cersei and her promises involved, before storming off to his cabin.

At last, he could let it fall.

His shoulders sagged, his features lost their frown for a few seconds as he stood there and watched the yellow fruit in his hand – poor result of a foolish impulse. He could admit it now, there was no one around anymore.

He still thought it might please her… Sansa.

Sansa, Sansa, Sansa – your sister, you beast, she’s your sister. Think of what Lord Stark would have to say. Think of Robb, of Lady Stark, of Arya, of his men. Think of her fear. She’s not for you, never for you, his mind repeated over and over. But it wasn’t enough. He said it himself, after all, he’s just a man, not a god.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought of it!
> 
> (I'm going back to writing chapter 15)


End file.
